


Mute button

by cain_kakushi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grandpa Nekomata, Non-Sexual Spanking, Self-Indulgent, Sick Character, Spanking, Team as Family, this is full of headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cain_kakushi/pseuds/cain_kakushi
Summary: Fukunaga wasn't non-verbal, but he wasn't made for conversations either. The amount of words you'd get out of him daily depended on how close you were: Kenma and Tora got the most on the team, and even then, they both wouldn't be surprised if Fukunaga stopped talking for a day. Sometimes he just didn't have anything to say.It made sense how no one would guess that there was something wrong with Fukunaga. Did the boy blend in the background too well?Or; Fukunaga decides to go to practice even if sick. With Nekomata's permission, Yaku takes the matter in hand.WARNING: The fic contains non-sexual corporal punishment of a minor.
Relationships: Fukunaga Shouhei & Nekomata Yasufumi, Fukunaga Shouhei & Yaku Morisuke
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	Mute button

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been a while, and here I am with something too self-indulgent and that nobody asked for. Classic.  
> This work had a direction, but it kept changing. I hope it's not too noticeable.

Who would have thought that finding a hot drink in a school would be so difficult?

The vending machines in Nekoma High had refrigerated coffee - student council idea, it seemed - but not tea, nor anything more useful than the yucky hot chocolate from the faculty room. Yamamoto had half heartedly proposed to heat up a can of orange juice, but fortunately Kuroo had stopped him in time.

With nothing else to do, Yaku was preparing to board on the mission of running from the school grounds and locating the nearest conbini. It was going to be his own personal version of the first marathon: running back with a hot cup of whatever was available and maybe grabbing some snacks too, careful not to let the beverage cool or spill, and mindful of the little time they had before the coaches would reach the gym.

In his uniform again, backpack hanging from his shoulder, hat on - Yaku faced the gates and prepared for the sprint, until a gentle weight on his arm grounded him back to the concrete.

“Where are you going? We are starting practice soon.” The hushed words barely reached him under the sound of the pouring rain, but there was no doubt as to who spoke them.

“... Nekomata-sensei?”

Yaku turned to find the old man smiling, his kind face snugly nestled between an enormous scarf and a woolen beanie. “Are you in a hurry?” He asked, not leaving the soft grip on Yaku’s jacket.

The boy didn’t know what to say.

It was pointless to lie, not that he would have had the heart to do it in their coach’s face. If the timing was correct, Naoi was in the gym already, and if he didn’t find out now what the rest of the team was hiding, he would have noticed it sooner or later anyway.

If it was too late to try and fix it, then Yaku had no other choice but to negotiate.

* * *

“So, let me understand…” Nekomata poured a teaspoon of honey in the warm milk, slowly stirring to let it melt properly. The clink of the metal, that sweet scent, the cute ceramic mug painted with the silhouette of a black cat - it could have been a nice moment, akin to a visit to a grandfather, if only Yaku wasn’t so on edge. He absentmindedly followed the pillar of white smoke up to the ceiling, coming back on Earth only when the spoon was tossed in a basin.

“Today his throat aches so much that he wasn’t able to eat lunch.”

Yaku nodded. “And he decided to practice anyway. We were doing a warm up, waiting for you and coach Naoi, but…”

“But he felt dizzy and had a coughing fit.” Nekomata gripped the mug with both of his hands and slowly walked up to the cocoon of blankets nestled on the armchair. “Fukunaga?” The coach gently called his name, “Drink, it will make you feel better.”

Fukunaga barely moved inside the blankets, eyes watering at that act of kindness, and looked in Yaku’s direction first - accepting the milk only after the libero nodded. The cozy creature took little sips, face scrunched a little at the way the liquid forcibly cleared a path down his throat.

“Good boy.” Nekomata patted Fukunaga’s head with a smile, letting the heel of his hand rest against the student’s forehead.

Sweet, sweet man - he had not hesitated to take Fukunaga and Yaku in the break room, no question asked while the others carried on with practice, so calm that it immediately eased the lingering sense of alarm. Yaku felt his chest tighten with guilt. “Coach…” He spoke in an unsure voice, eyes glued to the carpet, “I’m sorry that we tried to keep it from you. We were going to let him rest in the locker room, then bring him to the infirmary on the first useful moment.”

Nekomata dragged the pads of his fingers on Fukunaga’s scalp, petting him as he finished his milk. “Is it because you didn’t want to get him in trouble?”

Yaku caught the way Fukunaga’s gaze dropped at these words. The black haired boy tried to speak, _to apologize_ , but the words clogged in his throat and forced him to cough in the mug. His senpai spoke for him. "It's not that he's not in trouble, we just… didn't want him to be in trouble with you and coach Naoi."

They had little rules, but they were very clear: one of them was _don't attend practice while sick._ Breaking it could mean a whole lot of things, mainly being benched or forced to sit out of practice for a while, and when Kai had reminded it to a shivering and coughing Fukunaga, the boy almost scraped his throat raw to plead them to not do it.

It was uncharacteristic of him, but it had to conceal some reasoning: Fukunaga wasn't one to disobey, or plead, or panic like that - or at least, it had never happened in front of them. More than disappointed, the third year boys had been immediately concerned.

“We’re sorry about what happened." Yaku half bowed, "I can take full responsibility for the team-”

“Young man, this isn’t your place to take." Nekomata swiftly interjected, "Kuroo should as the captain, don’t you think? That is, unless it was your idea from the start.”

  
  


To be fair, it was Kai the one to bring up the idea of keeping that little incident between them. They had covered for Kuroo in the same way years before, so why not do it now?

Yaku was the one who reminded them that that specific deal was carried under a specific condition: if Kuroo wasn't going to get punished by the coaches, then the captain would punish him in their place.

That time, for attending practice with a running fever, Kuroo's penalty had been a sound spanking to make sure he wouldn't attempt something so stupid again. If they really wanted to be fair, then they had to go by the same rule for Fukunaga too. 

If Kai had little to no experience and Kuroo didn't have the heart to bend their number 6 over his knee, then Yaku was going to do it.

  
  


Nekomata could hear the gears turning in Yaku's head. "Morisuke?" He called, voice gentle as he brought the empty mug to lay in the basin, "I won't blame any of you, and I won’t interfere if you have something planned already. Do you?"

Yaku took his time to answer: that was his last occasion to drop it and let the adults find a suitable punishment, but while it was a responsibility, the libero cared deeply about Fukunaga and he _needed_ to know what was troubling him. The boy found it difficult to speak with his friends, so the possibility of him opening up to the coaches was near to zero. If that wasn’t enough of a reason, then what was?

Yaku looked at his teammate first, then back at their coach. "Yes," He answered with resolve, “I do.”

"Perfect.” Nekomata shrugged, reassured, “I'll give you some space to talk. Let's say, half an hour before I'm checking up on you two? You can always search for me if something is wrong. Then you can tell me what came up from your conversation." The man zipped his sweater and headed for the door, stopping near the armchair to pet Fukunaga’s hair one last time. "Obviously, if that's okay with you too, boy."

Once again, Fukunaga looked first in Yaku's direction.

While he seemed to be on another planet half of the time, the boy was really perceptive. The idea of remaining alone with his senpai seemed to spike a bit of understanding in that mind still fuzzy from the cold. He seemed to cringe a little, but the trust he put in Yaku was enough to convince him to look up at Nekomata and nod.

The old man nodded back. "I'll see you later, then."

As Nekomata headed for the door, Yaku quickly stood up and raised his voice. "Thank you…!" He blurted out - clearly running out of words, but nonetheless sincere.

That sweet man turned with yet another of his smiles. It made him look like an old cat, sly and content, choosing to ignore a lot of problems in favor of staying peaceful. "Ah, don't mind it," he said, soft voice dropping in a low whisper, "I'm too old to properly scold someone anyway."

That was a lie that nobody was going to protest.

* * *

"Can you talk?"

A chilly silence divided the two. Fukunaga got partially out of the blankets and was now hugging his ankles, mouthing a silent "no" between his knees.

Yaku couldn't believe it: their number 6 had classmates, he had Tora to bother him at lunch, and yet nobody noticed how bad he was hurting? No voice, a cough every time he parted his lips…

...oh. He probably didn't.

Fukunaga wasn't non-verbal, but he wasn't made for conversations either. The amount of words you'd get out of him daily depended on how close you were: Kenma and Tora got the most on the team, and even then, they both wouldn't be surprised if Fukunaga stopped talking for a day. Sometimes he just didn't have anything to say.

A nod, a shrug, raising a hand in front of him or smiling were his most common means of communication, and none involved words. It made sense how no one would guess that there was something wrong with Fukunaga, yet Yaku's shoulders slumped in defeat with the weight of that fact: was it really the first time it happened? Did the boy blend in the background too well?

Yaku reached for his backpack and took his flip-phone out, tapping slowly to open an empty message. "Is it okay to type for you?" He didn’t need to raise his gaze; the libero just waited to catch a nod at the corner of his eye before handing the phone to Fukunaga. “All yours. Now,”

The boy started typing before Yaku could even question him. He wasn’t exactly fast, but his lithe fingers moved so carefully that his senpai didn’t want to interrupt him: if Fukunaga had something to say after all that happened, he would shut up and listen.

Read?

Well, that.

> Thank you ヽ( ´ー`)ノ
> 
> I should not have alarmed the team
> 
> It’s all good now

“ _It’s all good?_ ” Yaku read in disbelief, “How good is it if your throat hurts, you can’t talk and you still haven’t eaten anything?”

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but attempting was enough to send him into a coughing fit again. He clasped a hand over his mouth and tightly closed his eyes, holding a hand up to stop Yaku from frantically searching for a glass of water. 

As soon as they came, his coughs turned into gentle hiccups and disappeared. 

Fukunaga had the gall to hold a thumbs up in front of him and nod with vigor, then flicked his fingers on his palm to demand for the phone.

> (●´⌓`●) I’m sorry
> 
> The milk was good, it hurts a lot less
> 
> I shouldn’t have come

Yaku looked at the display and then at Fukunaga, going back and forth between these little emoticons and his neutral face, concluding that the first ones were more expressive than him. If his eyes hadn’t been so red at the edges, maybe no one would have guessed he cried.

“No, you really shouldn’t have.” The libero sighed and handed the phone back to him, “Is there a reason you didn’t stay home? I can’t believe you were so reckless.”

The black haired boy stalled, dragging his short nails over the keys but pressing in a strainingly slow manner. It was a single word,

> Friends

Yaku cocked his head to the side. “Only that? Are you sure?”

> ㅇㅅㅇ

Well, it wasn’t really an answer but at least his face matched the emoticon.

“Is that the reason you didn’t want to tell the coaches? You didn’t want to skip practice as a punishment, so that you can keep being with your friends?”

Fukunaga started to type another distressed cat, but decided against it. A sadder pull took his lips as he tapped his thoughts away -

> I don’t want to be home

_What?_

Yaku looked up at him in alarm. He didn’t know anything about Fukunaga’s family, or situation, where or with whom he lived, and that fact put him over a powerless void. What was his kouhai saying? Was there anything wrong? A lot of different scenarios danced before his eyes as he tried to fish for information that was not there. What if something happened? Did anyone on the team know where Fukunaga lived, how his parents looked like, if he had any trusted adult able to care for him?

> It’s lonely ●︿●

Yaku did not use emoticons, so he wasn't sure if he was understanding it correctly, but still - once again, whatever was on the display did not align with Fukunaga's expression. Not that Yaku was skilled at reading people either, but when someone with that blank of a face pulled a clearly sad pout, it was difficult to ignore.

The libero scooted his chair forward, keeping his hands on his knees and not missing how Fukunaga was trying to wipe away that unwanted frown. "Hey," Yaku called, "what does it mean that it's lonely?"

Fukunaga looked to his side and shook his head.

Yaku’s features softened. "If there's something wrong, I need to know."

Their number six, gentle soul, played with his clammy hands in a little unsure act. His fingers stretched and trembled, and it went on until he made eye contact with Yaku - only then, his frown deepening with resolve, Fukunaga picked up the phone again. 

> There is nothing wrong!! I promise
> 
> It's just that I'm on my own

"You mean, you _live_ on your own? Alone?"

> Most days d(•ｰ•)

The _d_ was probably meant to be taken as a thumbs up, Yaku figured.

No matter how much their parents worked, teenagers would never be left completely alone. It was hard for Yaku to believe that but it did make a bit of sense, now, how Fukunaga cooked so well that he brought lunch both for him and for Tora, how his uniform shirts were always clean but never pressed, the fast way he completed chores around the gym… The littlest usual things that fit in that bigger picture of Fukunaga caring for himself.

Yaku was _aching_ for answers, but unfortunately that was not the right time. As much as he wanted to understand, to make sure that his kouhai wasn't facing anything bad, there was another matter to tend to at the moment, and they only had half an hour.

Yaku shook his head and made eye contact with Fukunaga. "You could have watched us practice, if that was the case. We surely wouldn't have told you no. There was no need to force yourself on the court, that was very naughty of you."

The boy winced at these words but nodded anyway, shyly acknowledging his mistake. When his gaze darted to the side, his senpai was quick to snap a finger in front of him to regain his attention.

"On top of that, you should have told someone about your throat." He scolded, "Now the infirmary is closed, and you have yet to lunch. What were you going to do? How were you going to drag yourself home after practice?" Yaku stood from his seat, and while he normally didn't look exactly imposing, from that angle he was positively _scary_. 

Fukunaga tensed, lithe body suddenly stiff and unmovable at Yaku's frown. He followed his senpai's movements and hugged his ankles again when Yaku pushed away the chair and began rummaging through his backpack.

"I'm not punishing you because you wanted to be here, Fukunaga." The libero pulled out his empty lunchbox and a pair of notebooks, holding them under his arm as his other hand dug deeper. "I'm punishing you because you came to school and deliberately tried to mask your health conditions just so that we wouldn't act. Am I wrong?" By the time he was done, his senpai was _wielding_ something. Fukunaga had to squint at it to understand: it was a plastic hairbrush, of a cyan neon color that did not look kind at all.

"No." The boy answered weakly, desperately hoping that Yaku would get that thing back in his bag. "You're right…"

"Perfect. Now stand up."

While Fukunaga did as instructed, Yaku took the heap of blankets elsewhere to sit on the armchair, legs spread to compensate for his kouhai's height. He reached for Fukunaga's hand and held it, dragging a thumb over its pale back in an attempt at being comforting. "Lay over my knees now. We will take care of your spanking and then I'll make sure you get another glass of milk, how does that sound?"

Fukunaga eyed the brush now sticking from Yaku's pocket, then concluded that there was no way out of it; and as his teammates' past experiences taught, if Yaku looked calm it was best not to challenge him. With the warm milk in mind, Fukunaga hesitantly lowered himself on his senpai's lap. The plush armrests were not uncomfortable, and the boy tightly hugged the one that was squishing his cheek. 

"What do we always say?" Yaku asked, smoothing the wrinkles on Fukunaga's t-shirt with an open hand.

The boy cleared his throat to no avail: the few words that he had spoken were too much already, it seemed. He looked back at his senpai with wide, desperate eyes, and got his hair ruffled in return.

"Fine, don't worry about it." Yaku sighed, gently pushing Fukunaga's face back on the armrest.

He went to pat his bottom in warning, getting acquainted to the lean shape of his legs, searching for the softest part and raising his hand only when he was sure of where to hit. "First health," the first spank came down, "then grades," two followed, clapping on the same patch of muscle, "then practice." 

Yaku spanked steadily, keeping a slow rhythm to start. He methodically went up and down Fukunaga's bottom, making sure to leave an impression even where his hands seemed to not reach with only one slap, overlapping the spanks to cover everything. At the corner of his eye, he saw the boy nod: it was adorable how he tried to be obedient, standing out in a team of feral teenagers that couldn't sit still through a round of warning swats. 

It was a while since Yaku only used one hand to dish out a punishment, without resorting to using his other limbs to pin down whoever was the one that got in trouble. If only Lev or Tora had half of that obedient attitude, spanking them would not feel like a workout. But then again, maybe that attitude was the exact reason why their number six didn't get in trouble.

"Is it uncomfortable for your throat? Does it hurt worse?" Yaku made sure to check between smacks, his warm hand resting on the top of Fukunaga's thigh. 

"No…" came the feeble answer.

"Good, because I'm not sending you home in worse conditions."

Yaku was still spanking him over his shorts, but it was impossible not to notice the little shudders that the boy gave in response. Of course he wasn't used to spankings, how many times did he even get one? Once it was for a collective blame; the second time it was Kai who took care of it, but from what Yaku grasped, it was barely a dozen swats. The libero respected how difficult it could be to spank a "good boy", the peacemaker, the quiet one that would not harm a fly - the list could go on to the infinite, really - but when it was for health reasons, everything subsided. No matter how guilty Fukunaga looked, the greatest insult would be letting him go without consequences.

"A lot of things could have gone wrong today, Fukunaga. Too many." Yaku lowered Fukunaga’s shorts until they reached his knees. The lowest part of his bottom, not covered by his underwear, was dusted of a pale pink and yet Yaku had still to hear a peep from his kouhai.  
He was so used to handling brats that the reality of things unsettled him.

“Can you still write for me?” Yaku asked, tapping the case of his flip-phone with a finger. He _needed_ to hear from him, to understand if something was wrong, to at least know if they were going anywhere with that punishment. 

Fukunaga nodded and reached back to take the phone. "Good boy, keep it close." His senpai praised, but that pause lasted really little: faster than before, Yaku brought his hand down to bring the warm-up to an end. Fukunaga’s legs crossed and uncrossed, but the libero was able to still him by dragging an open hand over his arched back. It was comforting, like a reward for staying put.

Until Yaku’s spanking stopped once again. 

"I need you to write what you will do when we’re done," He reached for the brush, “and then you’ll promise me that from now on you’ll always put yourself first.” The plastic flat of the brush tapped lightly on Fukunaga’s bottom, making its presence known for precious seconds before it snapped down with a resounding _thwack_.

This time, Yaku heard a shaky exhale coming from the boy. He waited for Fukunaga to flip the phone open before bringing the brush down again, alternating between left and right to make each blow count. Maybe it wasn’t wooden, but the bite of plastic stung and Yaku was determined to make the most out of it.

The little _beeps_ coming from the keys of his flip phone paused and resumed continuously, Fukunaga going as far as deleting entire words at a time when particularly hard spanks would catch places that weren’t the softest part of his rear. His throat burned even more with the silent yelps that got pulled out of his mouth, little _ows_ that he couldn’t control if he wanted to; it prickled his neck, but that dull pain was easily ignored when the brush kept on coming down.

T9 on that grid-keyboard was both a blessing and a curse: Fukunaga dried unshed tears on the armrest to be sure of typing the correct words, but he had to pray to every god in existence that Yaku’s phone wouldn’t just slip out of his hands. It was cheap and old, but Fukunaga did not want to cause any more trouble to his senpai. He typed and typed - it still wasn’t enough of a distraction from pain, so guilt made him hang his head and sob.

Yaku was starting to understand why Kai and Kuroo did not want to deal with their number six: Fukunaga was laying limp over his knees, trembling under his same short sniffles and hiccups. The libero stopped, repeating his previous caresses, this time to no avail. The boy continued to cry harder in a small voice that Yaku never heard before, arm flung over the armrest while his hand was still holding the phone tightly.

“Hey, hey-” His senpai patted his shoulder, “Let me see what you wrote, please? We’re almost done.”

> I will apologize
> 
> Then go home, then take medicine, eat 
> 
> Sleep
> 
> I’m sorry
> 
> No school tomorrow, no practice til it is better
> 
> I promise to not

The message ended there, and Yaku could not fault Fukunaga for it. He closed the flip phone and slid it in a pocket. “What were you promising? Can I guess and finish for you?” Yaku waited for Fukunaga to nod, and only then he spoke again, “ _I promise to not disregard my health ever again._ Is that it?”

The plush armrest sucked most of the black haired boy’s volume, but the answer was still there - “I promise.”

Yaku ran his left hand in Fukunaga’s hair to catch the short curls at the base. He continued to roll them until his kouhai’s breathing got steady - not calm yet, but at least he wasn’t gasping for air anymore. “It’s just ten more, like the days you were supposed to sit out of practice if the coach found you out. No need to count them.”

Fukunaga tensed, humming a short “ok” in response while he pressed his forehead in his arms. He let himself be repositioned, hips resting on Yaku’s crossed legs so that his senpai could have better access to his sensitive undercurve. The brush tapped in warning. 

Yaku did not bare his kouhai, but hooked a finger in the waistband of his underwear and pulled upwards just slightly, enough to expose a bit more of skin: the reddening blush was evenly spread, leaving Yaku with the task of making a lasting impression on Fukunaga’s sitspots. Just ten, ten and it would be over.

Yaku delivered them rapidly, paying no mind to the weak squirming that he got in response. Until five, the boy managed to stubbornly keep silent, but the brush kept on forcibly pulling yelps out of his throat. Because the paler skin flushed quicker now that it was fully exposed, Yaku did not apply more strength than necessary so the last three blows were all sting and little impact.

The moment they were done, the plastic brush got chucked in the backpack at his feet.

“It’s over...” Yaku soothed his kouhai’s sobs for a second time, making quick work of redressing him, “You did so well, Fukunaga. I’m proud of you.”

“I’m sorry-” Fukunaga hiccuped. He remained still until Yaku nudged him to stand, only to pull him in a hug before his shoes could touch the ground: long legs awkwardly placed on either side of his senpai’s waist, the boy disregarded shame - it was too late for that - and buried his face in Yaku’s shoulder.

The libero shushed his quiet whimpers and kept on holding him. “Do you have your own phone?” He asked, waiting for Fukunaga’s nod to nudge at his temple. “Then, next time you’re sick send an email to your friends. I’m sure they’ll come to cheer you up.” 

“It’s troublesome...” the boy mumbled.

“It’s not. Didn’t you go to Kenma’s with Tora when he caught a fever? They would do the same for you. And…” Yaku sighed, tightening his hug as best as he could, “You can always ask me, hm? My mother is really good at making soup, I can bring you some.”

It was difficult to know if it was a good sign or not, but Fukunaga’s chest jumped in another silent hiccup. “You’re really kind, senpai-” His voice croaked. There were only a few syllables left until his voice would be lost again, and Fukunaga decided to spend them against Yaku’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

* * *

  
  


Yaku remained glued to the side of the armchair, watching a cozy Fukunaga curled in himself while taking a nap. He looked peaceful now, half buried in thick blankets and warmer clothes.

“Can’t we call his parents to pick him up?”

Nekomata-sensei unplugged the electric kettle, moving slowly to pour warm water in a cup ramen. “Can’t do.” His fat fingers gently pressed the lid close. “His father comes back on Friday.”

“What about…” Yaku’s words died on his tongue. The dread of learning that Fukunaga didn’t want to be so _alone_ came back, perfectly readable on his face, but who gave him the right to ask?

“His mother?” Nekomata prompted, chuckling when he caught Yaku’s ashamed blush. “She divorced and remarried years ago, I think she lives in Gifu now.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be nosy. It’s just that when he told me he was alone, I thought of the worst.”

“How would you know? He’s a quiet one. That’s classified information I’m telling you, see? I don’t mind sharing.” The old man grinned, “I know the family because I was friends with his grandmother, we live in the same neighborhood. But you didn’t know it from me.”

“Ah- of course!”

“You’re a good senpai, Morisuke.” Nekomata stopped in front of the armchair and patted Yaku’s arm, then pointed at the door with a nod of his head. “If you change now, you’ll still have time to join practice and help Shibayama. Naoi and I will bring Fukunaga home after practice.”

The libero looked torn: while he wanted to stay and make sure that his kouhai would be alright, he rationally knew that he couldn’t do more than pat his head. His job was done, but if only he could… if only he could, he’d be the one to take Fukunaga home, to assure that he took the right medicine, to check if he had a fever or not. 

Then again, it wasn’t his place to take.

If Nekomata really lived in his same neighborhood, then Yaku was sure it was going to be alright. Their eldest coach was a lot more paternal than he liked to admit, he wouldn’t just drop Fukunaga home and then go away.

“Thank you.” Yaku ruffled their number six’ hair one last time, then sucked his pride and headed for the door.

“No,” Nekomata corrected, “thank you for taking care of him.”

The noises coming from outside ceased when Yaku closed the door after himself. Seconds of peace followed: while he could still feel Nekomata’s shadow looming over him, Fukunaga remained motionless to bask in the warmth of the fuzzy blankets.

The act was up when the side of Nekomata’s hand bonked softly over his head. “You should stop pretending to be asleep when you’re not, it’s not polite.” The old man reprimanded.

“Sorry...” Fukunaga meekly answered, eyes still closed out of shame.

He could have gone to Gifu with his mother, she asked every year: in middle school, when she married, when she had a daughter, even last Christmas she asked him again, but Fukunaga had a lot of reasons to refuse. As much as he loved his mother, he didn’t really like her new husband; and because his father was always away for work, Fukunaga thought that it would be sad for him to be alone on his free weekends. It was a natural decision to stay in Tokyo and help him.

He heard Nekomata-sensei move back to the plastic table at the center of the room. “You didn’t want me to know.” His coach sighed, clicking a pair of disposable chopsticks.

Fukunaga dug deeper in the blankets because _no_ , no he didn’t want to! He would have preferred getting spanked by one of his senpai rather than Nekomata; not that it would have hurt more or less, it would have hurt _differently_.

When he first refused to move, Fukunaga didn’t have Nekoma’s team, _his friends_ , to count on yet. His grandmother’s friends were there first to check on him and his father, and sometimes that group of kind people did include Nekomata. 

He was just a little bit more than a stranger or a coach. It would have been too close to home.

“I told you I would let Yaku deal with it, so I won't do anything,” He reassured the boy, “but know that if it was up to me, you'd be getting bedtime spankings until Friday, mister. You do know that you’re still going to be sitting out of practice for some days, right?”

“Yes sir…” Fukunaga coughed, dreading the thought already.

“And that I’ll have to tell your father.”

The boy’s head shot out of the blankets.

“But,” Nekomata slowly removed the lid from the cup ramen, “if you finish this, I’ll tell him that nothing bad happened and that I already dealt with it.”

That promise got Fukunaga moving really fast: in seconds, the blankets were again a shapeless heap as the boy moved to reach the table. Too confident, he yipped when the contact with the chair wasn’t as kind as he anticipated.

  
  


More quiet, taller, older; in all the different ways Fukunaga had grown, Nekomata was happy to look at him and find the same little boy that begged to see his cats on Sunday mornings.

Sometimes his finger got stuck on that mute button, but he knew how to make himself be heard.

He just needed to find the right friends to listen.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you survived all of these words, thank you <3 I appreciate you so much!  
> If there are errors, it's probably cause it's 2 AM. I'll come back when I'm more coherent.
> 
> If you want, leave feedback! It'd make my day.  
> Xoxoxo,  
> Cain (*＾▽＾)／


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